


Call of the White Wolf's Bard

by LuckyGun



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Brothers, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Parent Vesemir (The Witcher), Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Vesemir (The Witcher), Racism, Timeline What Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:34:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26703031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyGun/pseuds/LuckyGun
Summary: Vesemir happens upon a bard. He listens, worries, and follows him into the darkness. What he finds reminds him that ‘brother’ isn’t a word exclusive to Witchers.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 159





	Call of the White Wolf's Bard

It was his first foray into the world after winter released its hold on Kaer Morhen.

Life was exactly like he’d left it. Bleak, dark, full of sorrow and fear and anger. The age they were all suffering through had all the worst things in spades. He wouldn’t begrudge the populace their diversions, then, and in fact took part in them when he could.

With his darker hair and forest-green armor, he could fit in better with the crowds than a certain White Wolf, and none refused him hospitality when he asked for it. He knew he would never quite understand the struggles of his young friend, but that didn’t mean the idea didn’t strike his mind now and again.

Like at this moment, in this tavern, as he listened to low voices go loud.

Three men, armed to the teeth, were pressing up against a younger, fairer one, whose grip upon his lute was tight.

“Fucking mutants all ought to die,” one of them growled, the other two chuffing their agreement. The smell of ale and blood oozed from them.

“And a right you have, my good sir, to your overwhelmingly boisterous opinion,” the bard said brightly, though his eyes were tight. “I daresay, may I be so bold as to infer, that you have, therefore, never been assaulted by any sort of monster or beasty while wandering the wild with your grand…retinue?”

His flowery words confused the trio for a moment before the leader snarled, “We can take care of ourselves, you twit. Don’t need no bastard son of witchcraft and sorcery to save us like maidens!”

Patting the studded armor in front of him with a gentle tap, the bard answered, “Of course! You’ve plenty of silver to take down alps and bruxae! I’m sure you do! And necrophage oil for the ghouls and drowners that prowl the shoreline! My friend, might I thank you for your usually thankless service in defense of the weak?”

Here, the leader did frown, visibly trying to put the words together in his addled head. The bard didn’t slow, though, his eyes dancing as he turned his attention equally to the other two flanking him. “And you both as well! My dear soldiers, how many heads have you claimed for the safety of your fellow citizens here in Yantra? How many nekkers and foglets? Please, regale me!”

It was about this time that the bard’s voice started to dip deeper, growing sharper and colder, and he added more softly, “And how many scars have you? How many times have you fought through the throes of venom and poison that would kill anyone who had not suffered your life? Tell me the last time you fought a katakan while burning with a fever that would strike down any lesser man? Please, regale me.”

Surprisingly, the three backed off about a half step, and the leader’s eyes were fixed upon their target with dawning understanding. “I haven’t…”

The younger man’s grip on his lute eased, and the harshness of his voice tempered. “Of course you haven’t. You haven’t because _you can’t_. You cannot suffer even a single bite from a ghoul without succumbing to the effects – none of us can. We cannot blast harpies and ekhidnas from the sky with magic that burns our cores and saps energy we do not have. We cannot strike golems and gargoyles with steel or silver without shattering our bones upon impact. _We cannot._ ”

For his part, the leader of the three, sobering quickly, reached for some of his bravado and snapped, “They shouldn’t exist. None of them.”

Sighing softly, the bard agreed easily, “No. No they shouldn’t. The Conjunction of Spheres destroyed all our chances at simple, carefree lives. But Witchers exist because monsters exist. They were created to save all of us, to buffer the line between beasts and humanity and elves and dwarves and halflings. They were made to help us find that balance between suffering and survival. They are here to help us coexist, my friend.”

And here, the bard leaned back and gave a half bow. “And I am here to spread the story of how the White Wolf gives more of himself to humanity than is rightfully decent to give.”

Ah, so that’s who the child was: Jaskier, the famous travelling companion of the one Witcher who would suffer such company.

The words were fervent and warm, emboldened with belief, and the three grunted quietly before wandering away without a farewell, the leader’s eyes resting on the bard for a moment longer than necessary.

The strange moment was over, and the sounds of the tavern returned in full to his ears.

Vesemir studied the young man carefully.

In the last several years, he’d heard of him from both acquaintances and Geralt’s own accounts. He was described as a loud, irresponsible fellow who nonetheless displayed a fierce loyalty to the Witcher he followed. Seeing the way he cowed the unruly trio with naught but words, the old Witcher seriously doubted the first characterization and confirmed the second. Any visible lack of tact or forethought seemed like a good defense against those who would use him against the superhuman he travelled with.

Sinking into his ale and observing the crowd as the bard stepped upon the small stage at the far end of the great room, Vesemir wondered quietly about the younger Witcher’s brief but confident statement about Jaskier a few years before.

_“He calls me his friend, no matter how many times I deny it or push him away. He fights for us, in his own way. He tries. And he’s not scared of me. I cannot…explain what that means some days, Vesemir. I did not know any who’ve seen me return from a fight, bloody and black-eyed from potions, and have not shied away in terror, not before him. He has washed my wounds, treated my injuries, and healed more hurts than those upon my skin. I suffer his presence willingly, for as long as he’s willing to suffer mine. He is my brother.”_

The defense that Geralt raised to protect the bard, his unending declaration that the mutations had burned out his emotions, was just as effective as the aloofness that Jaskier projected to the world.

Odd brother to choose, he mused, but he couldn’t deny that there was a warmth in his chest that hadn’t faded following the bard’s stalwart defense of Witchers in general.

A few hours passed like minutes to him, and he listened to the songs that soaked the air. It was a mix of bawdy tavern tunes and what were becoming known as ‘The Witcher Ballads’, though he didn’t know how many of the tales spun were true. He didn’t doubt that Geralt had slayed a werewolf after an hour-long fight atop a broken keep while the full moon shown grandly upon them. He could believe that a selkiemore had swallowed the Witcher whole, and that he had wiped out a kikimore nest with one hand while the other held a torch. He was less inclined to believe that he had herded a goat with a bell or that he had taken a brew that let him talk to his horse for a time.

However, the stranger, sillier tunes made the smells of the tavern change. There was less anger, less malice, and instead the lighter and sweeter aroma of understanding and peace. Mayhap it was the sheer strangeness of the songs, or the visual presented. More likely, it was that such odd concepts served to humanize the Witcher.

Either way, he still noted when the leader of the trio stood and approached the bard between songs, something quiet passing between them. He watched as Jaskier’s smile grew strained and his face paled, but his thanks were heartfelt and firm. The bard finished one more ballad, the tried and true ‘Toss a Coin to Your Witcher’ that had the whole of the crowd singing along, and then announced his apologetic departure.

Vesemir followed him from a distance, concerned.

The bard went first to the stables and bribed away an old donkey with a smile and a single coin to the hands working there, and then he mounted it with sure movements and set out into the deep midnight of the forest around the town.

On foot, the old Witcher tracked him from a distance.

When the trail grew cold near the shallows of a swift mountain river, he used his enhanced hearing to search out his quarry.

_There_ , around the edge of a bend, were soft voices. Taking care to stay downwind, he moved silently.

Then he smelled blood and noxious poison and sweat.

Keeping himself hidden, he shifted over the rise of the hill to take in the sight below him. A few torches were lit and shoved into the wet riverbank in a circle, and a donkey and a mare were tethered to a tree at the edge of the glow. In the middle of the torchlight were two figures, and Vesemir fought down his immediate, gut-deep reaction to the visual.

Geralt was kneeling and retching into the moving water, his form taut and shivering. Beside him, an arm across his chest and holding him up, was the bard. Jaskier was murmuring words he couldn’t hear, but the worry was easy to detect in what little he could catch. It was only a few moments later when the white haired Witcher sagged heavily into the human’s hold, collapsing, and if Jaskier was surprised by the sudden weight, he didn’t show it. Instead, he compensated and pulled him against his side, struggling to his feet with an interesting mix of both experience and frustration.

The two moved slowly away from the water, Geralt finally dropping bodily to the ground in a way that even the bard couldn’t prevent. But he seemed more resigned than afraid, even as he turned the Witcher onto his back with careful movements.

Vesemir stared.

It was rare, this, seeing another Witcher deep in the clutches of potion toxicity, and it wasn’t something he relished. But the bleached skin and black veins and voided eyes could be nothing else. Geralt’s mouth was fixed into a snarl, a growl emanating evenly from his chest, and his fangs flashed in the night.

“Peace, my friend. It is all right. I will fetch your White Honey in a moment, when I’m sure you can keep it down long enough for it to circulate your system. Please, just breathe,” the bard said gently, his hands working at the heavy armor that was constricting the Witcher’s chest.

The rumble faded after a moment, and Geralt’s voice was more gravelly than Vesemir had ever heard before. “Can’t…can’t see, Jaskier. Too bright.”

Cat, then, or some enhanced version of the potion, if the simple torches were causing him such trouble. His hand was already raising in a familiar motion, the fingers in position to cast Aard, but the bard was quick to push it down with his own.

“Don’t you dare, Geralt. Let me put them out the old-fashioned way, you damned fool.” There was no bite in the words, only fondness, and he quickly did just that, leaving a single burning torch between them and the mounts.

The young wolf vomited again, splattering black and green bile across both his own chest and the bard’s arm, but there was no sound of disgust from the human. “Calm, brother. Here, small sips.”

As Jaskier produced a water flask and helped him wash away the taste, Vesemir studied the situation with a distant, carefully controlled mind. He wasn’t quite able to believe what he was seeing.

How could a human treat one of their own this way? What did he want?

There was no grandeur to be had here. No glory in propping up the downed Witcher against his chest as he retched again and again, covering them both in ichor. No fame to be found in stripping gear and swords off a friend to allow blood and freezing water to soak into his clothes. No fortune in any of this.

But perhaps, in some ways, there was wealth here.

The grunt of thanks as the last of the armor was pulled away and allowed Geralt a deeper breath. The hum of understanding as he was laid carefully down, the man’s sacrificed doublet serving as a temporary pillow as he darted for the mare’s saddlebags. The way he bared his throat upon his return, giving easy access to the deep slice across his collarbone. The trust displayed as he swallowed a potion with his eyes closed.

Wealth to rival a dragon’s hoard, then.

Vesemir could deduce what had occurred well enough, given the smells and the happening in the tavern. Geralt had fought something – large, clawed, and fast – and had been pressed enough to purposefully toxify his blood with potions. He’d mounted Roach to return to the town, only to fall to the burning in his veins, as well as the poison in his wounds, at the edge of the river. The three thugs had come across him, probably said words that could sting as much as a blade, and left him to die.

And die he may have, if the bard’s gentle turning of minds and the leader’s own conscience hadn’t neatly met in the tavern.

Simple enough to figure out, as it was a fairly tired tale of their lifestyle.

But this, _this_ , was not. The Path was meant to be walked alone, always. It didn’t have room for companions or friends, or even fellow Witcher brethren.

So why did this feel so right?

Geralt’s skin was warmer in color though still caked with mud and poison, and his upper body was leaned against Jaskier’s legs to ease both his breathing and the bard’s access to the brutal wound on his chest. The bard’s hands were steady and careful as they poured a potion over the edges of it, his grip on the Witcher’s shoulder gentle but firm as they held him through the inevitable shudder of pain.

And when the golden eyes started to flutter against the damage to his body, Jaskier simply pressed his forehead to the Witcher’s white hair, ignorant of the mess, and whispered, “Sleep, brother. You’re safe.”

He must have felt such, because when he lost consciousness moments later, there was no tension or fear in the act. Just peace.

Vesemir stayed for hours longer, keeping a careful watch on the surround, determined not to let any harm befall either of the two below. He didn’t want to delve too deeply into the shock of what he’d found; brother meant something very different to humans than Witchers, he’d thought, but now knew that to be false. He was ashamed, profoundly, of the reservations he’d previously expressed to Geralt of his companion.

That shame deepened when Geralt began to shiver and burn with fever, and Jaskier held him closer still, singing unknown ballads under his breath as a comfort to them both. As the fever broke with the dawn, and he knew there was no more danger here, Vesemir took his leave as silently as he’d arrived.

No doubt there would be some sign of his passing – a smell, a trail, a hint of old magic. But he guessed that Geralt would understand, and now wondered if maybe the bard would, too.

As he travelled his own Path, and heard songs throughout the realm, he smiled. When one rose up, tasting new to his senses, he found himself sighing in relief.

_And he lay by the river, a soldier of the night  
Left to death and decay, fallen to abaya’s might_

_But fear and rage gave way in blessed morn  
Right and life given chance over scorn_

_One in sight, the other in mind  
Cry to the skies at the gore they find_

_Peace, be still, use my strength, brother  
Peace, be still, know you’re safe, brother_

_Raise your glasses, one and all  
For the White Wolf lives on  
Lives and fights on  
For me, and you, and you all_


End file.
